Carry That Weight
by ADayInOurLife
Summary: No one, not even Sherlock Holmes, is infallible; and everyone needs help, needs their own guardian angel to watch out for them sometimes, someone else to carry the weight of everything. A series of unconnected 221B one-shots of different instances where different characters have looked out for Sherlock. Word count by my computer.
1. Lestrade

In sleep, Sherlock's serenity amazes Lestrade. His brow is smooth and his eyelashes spread out over thin, pale cheeks. He's draped elegantly over the couch, the sash of his favourite blue dressing gown trailing along the red carpet. Lolling sideways, his head nuzzles up to the armrest, and that makes Greg smile. Here, the detective loses his stress and agitation, and his expression clears. Only now he looks peaceful.

Greg's thankful for this small respite during the God-awful detox he's helping Sherlock through. In the momentarily peaceful, shadowy sitting room, Greg can faintly see the steady rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. A ray of moonlight shines on Sherlock's face, illuminating a small square of marble-like alabaster skin. Greg twitches the curtain, blocking it out, so Sherlock isn't disturbed, and a stray curl falls over Sherlock's face.

As a faint frown and sweat beads form on Sherlock's forehead, Greg stands worriedly. He places a wet cloth over the feverish brow, making the black locks cling to his skin. Lestrade resumes his silent post on the chair, watching.

Greg is exhausted. But he loves Sherlock like a father; a relationship Sherlock lacked. He'll never give up on the young man, who'll be great one day. So right now, Lestrade has just one purpose: fix Sherlock, keep him safe, help him get better.

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**A/N: Thanks for reading! I must say, for someone who usually writes well over the word limit, this has been an interesting exercise. Story is complete, so updates will be regular. As always, I do not own anything, and feedback is very much appreciated!**


	2. Donovan

Gunshots smoked through the dingy alley. Donovan whipped her head around at a strangled, gut wrenching exclaim of surprise and pain. Through disorientated vision, the over-bright eyes of the collapsed Sherlock met hers. Alan Reece had already turned on his heel; Donovan radioed the criminal's movements to the back-up and called 999 before wheeling around to Sherlock.

"Freak – don't fall asleep! You've got to stay with me!"

"Oh, rea – lly?" Sherlock gasped. "That cli – ché drivel is – your best?"

What shocked her was the quantity of blood. Quickly whipping up a tourniquet, she could feel life seeping out of Sherlock's wounds beneath her fingers. It was frightening. His head began to loll, his breathing was coming and short and anxious gurgles. Sally's head swum as she kept talking.

"What's the date?"

"Nov – ember…third…"

"Your name?"

"Really? Dono – van…you're not…good at this. I'm – bored…" his eyes began to slide closed, and she shook him.

"Just shut up and answer the questions."

"But…having – shut up –"

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

But Sherlock didn't respond; he just lay, chalk-white, frighteningly still and silent.

"Freak! Sherlock!" she yelled, terrified.

"You told – me to…shut up…"

Sally ignored the relief flooding through her. Supporting him with shaking hands she kept Sherlock talking, kept his eyes open, watching the pavement stained with too much blood.

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**A/N: Thanks for reading! A big thanks to everyone who's followed/favourited/reviewed so far - all of you are amazing! Feedback is always appreciated :)**


	3. Mrs Hudson

"You haven't put the flat on the market yet?" Sherlock asked Mrs Hudson bustling around with the kettle, the sounds of removalist's vans dying as they rounded the corner.

"I was rather hoping not to go through the real estate agents too much," an arch of steaming liquid poured into the teacups.

"Then good luck renting out a house."

"Sherlock, DI Lestrade told me you're on his floor again," Mrs Hudson's voice turned stern. "What did you do now?"

Glancing away sheepishly, Sherlock answered the only person who could make him ashamed of himself: "The oven exploded one too many times."

Mrs Hudson sunk into the chair across from Sherlock: "You know that the currently empty doors of 221B are always open to you."

Grey eyes slid to avert hers again. Delicately, Sherlock picked at a biscuit. True: he didn't _want_ to camp out on the streets or at Lestrade's, and it was so cosy here.

"I…I think I'll look for something a little cheaper, save money…"

"Nonsense Sherlock!" Enclosing his hand with hers, she met the reluctant gaze moving back to her. "You saved my life. Accommodation deals are a benefit of heroism," she winked. "I would never let my boy into trouble. And the address has a good ring to it."

Sherlock smiled sheepishly. He liked being her boy.

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**A/N: As always, a big thank you to everyone who's reviewed, favourited and followed :) Thanks for reading!**


	4. Stamford

Mike slouched on the lab chair during his break, utterly exhausted. Between the baby and teaching, he had no brain power left in him.

"So, what's today proj –"

"Don't touch," Sherlock snapped, and Mike withdrew his hand before it could be swatted away. "Aspartic acid," Sherlock didn't look up. "Incidentally, Mike, my new address is 221B Baker St."

"Oh? What about Robert?"

"Kicked me out. Apparently the oven was meant for cooking, not blowing up."

Taking off his glasses to polish them slowly with the corner of his shirt, Mike sighed heavily. Stamford's tired eyes focused on Sherlock on the other side of the lab – alone. Mike hoped Sherlock would find someone to stick with soon. Each flatmate Mike had found him was just one disaster after another.

Mike worried about something happening to Sherlock. Mike worried about his heart, because he knew Sherlock had one. He didn't want it to suffer alone.

"How's the new rent?"

"The landlady's giving me a special deal, but Mycroft's happy to cover…"

Mike knew Sherlock wouldn't be happy with Mycroft covering though, so promised to be on the lookout.

"Well," Sherlock stood, putting on his coat, "try to find someone who isn't dull this time. I'll have to painfully kill myself if I have to suffer another idiot who hasn't got any brain."

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**A/N: Hi everyone, thanks as always for reading and to those of you who have given feedback - much appreciated! Sorry this chapter's a couple of days late!**


	5. John

If Sherlock thought he was getting this past John, he was very wrong. His skin was a sickly grey, sweat coated his forehead, and every now and then he muffled a violent cough. John thought Sherlock would have been worried about contaminating his experiments. Sherlock finally stood up from his microscope, but swayed alarmingly with the sudden movement.

"Are you feeling all right?"

A curt "fine" answered him.

"You don't look it."

"I don't get _sick_ John," Sherlock spat, his face contorting in a scoff. A bout of sneezing ruined the effect of this sentence somewhat though.

"Yep, you don't get sick. 'Course not."

Sherlock bravely attempted to stumble into the kitchen, but his balance betrayed him. Toppled over to lean against the wall, he hissed as the doorjamb burnt his sensitive skin. So it was finally without much fight that John settled Sherlock into bed. His patient flopped, exhausted, onto the sheets.

"Stupid transport," John heard. "I'll be _bored!_"

"You'll be _fine_. Now you need rest. Drink this," John handed him a steaming mug of boiling water, lemon and honey that Sherlock eyed dubiously. Finally, he sipped it gingerly, satisfying his doctor. "I'll check up on you soon. _Sleep_."

Sherlock's weak voice called once more from the pillows: "Whatever you do, John Watson, don't ever post this on your blog."

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**A/N: As always, a bit thank you to all my readers, and everyone who has reviewed, followed or favourited, thanks so much :) I own nothing, as always, but you hardly need me to tell you that.**


	6. Molly

The slight clinking of Molly's best china and a soft purr from Toby were the only things that could be heard in the quiet house. Molly brought in the pink, flowery, immaculately set tea tray, placing it and a bowl of chicken soup on a minute space on the table in front of Sherlock. He'd barely eaten in the five days he'd been there, just studied files and maps papering the table. Sherlock took the cup absentmindedly, and Molly contented herself with curling up on her couch, stroking Toby's warm weight on her lap, studying Sherlock. When he'd finished the soup and tea she spoke.

"What's your plan?"

"I'm staying for my funeral, then leaving immediately after."

Ignoring the jerk in her chest at this, she asked where "leaving" was.

"Wherever it takes me."

"Wherever what does?"

"Unweaving Moriarty's web. So far, I'll head for Rome, followed by Rotterdam and Beijing."

"You'll be fighting them?" Molly struggled to keep her voice level.

Sherlock nodded, and Molly clenched her fist.

"Be safe – please," she whispered.

"Of course," he glanced up to her, something strange flashing through his eyes. Emotion. "And you'll keep _them_ safe? I trust you Molly."

Molly nodded firmly, seeing Sherlock's guard down for just one second. Protecting them protected him. She would keep them safe until Sherlock came back.

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**A/N: As always, thank you for reading, I own nothing you recognise**


	7. Mycroft

Mycroft's eyes followed the sleek black limousine gliding to a halt in front of him. He could hear muffled raised voices from inside the car, and rolled his eyes. Finally, a man tumbled out of the doors and glared at Mycroft, his eyes wide and glinting.

"Good evening Anderson," Mycroft smiled smoothly, particularly enjoying his guest's face turning to wood and skin paling, recognising Mr British Government.

Anderson tried to assert some semblance of authority, straightening himself out, holding his chin haughtily in the air. But the dirt-smudged suit and slight perspiration ruined the effect for Mycroft somewhat.

"What do you want?" Anderson's small voice rang, amplified, through the room.

"I am here to follow up on the disgusting defamation of my brother in the media."

Mycroft paused.

"Let me make this very clear, Anderson. Any continuation of this slander from you will result in most…_undesirable_ consequences. And no one wants that, do they?"

"I have right of thought, Mr Holmes, and the fraudulent –"

Anderson's words caught in the choke grip that was now holding him. He could feel power and rage radiate towards him.

Mycroft's voice was soft and silkily dangerous: "Know that I will personally ensure you haven't a single restful day your whole life should I hear you ever again speak that way about my baby brother."


	8. Anthea

The one thing Sherlock hated more than anything in the world – even more than boredom or stupidity – was being wrong. That was why he had his hawk gaze fixed on Anthea, half-concealed in gathering darkness, devising all the many different ways his brother could punish her.

Anthea glided down the stone stairs while Sherlock strode through the _Rue Mo__ï__se_ to meet her standing by the waterfront.

"Mycroft never hears about this."

"You're welcome."

"I wasn't thanking you," Sherlock snarled.

Anthea sighed. "I was doing my job."

"No, your job is to attend to my brother's every whim, not interfere with –"

" – save."

" – my plans."

"It won't do you, Mycroft, or indeed the world, any good if you're dead."

Sherlock whipped to face the Seine: "I am dead."

"Not for long. You just have Moran left, so focus. You would've died today, if it weren't for me. You can't be careless."

Silence. Both waited for the other to speak, listening to the soft trickle of water.

"Sherlock, I know you must be desperate to just return, but this isn't over. Don't rush. It's normal that you're feeling –"

"Dead men don't have feelings."

"But you're not dead."

Mycroft's brother spun to leave.

"Sherlock – please."

Anthea smiled when Sherlock finally jerked his head – the smallest nod – and disappeared into the breeze.

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**A/N: And that's it! A big thanks to everyone who read, followed, reviewed or favourited, it's really encouraging and makes my day :)**


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